When she walked in, it was like a vice that had been clenched around his chest suddenly eased away. He could breathe again. She was there, and she was still in one piece. The cracks were obvious to anyone who cared to look, but she held herself together. All on her own. So damn strong.
The reminder as to why he couldn’t duck beneath the bar and pull her into his arms like he wanted to came fast and brutal as Mason met her just inside the door. He looked genuinely concerned about her—and after Jay’s reaction that morning, he damn well should—but the understanding behind that concern was absent. There was a key to her suffering, a missing piece to the puzzle that unlocked those walls and allowed you to see behind them. A key only Jay possessed.
Deep down, Jay knew he couldn’t blame Mason for not understanding, but it didn’t make him want to throttle him any less. The smile on Em’s face was so plastic she looked like a friggin’ Barbie doll. How the hell could he not see that? He had to be blind not to see how much she was still hurting even if he couldn’t grasp why.
When he grinned back at her, obviously placated by her BS facade, Jay grit his teeth against the word echoing through his brain. Idiot!
“What do ya say, Jay, you up for a little fun tonight? My roommate’s out of town for the weekend.” Sahara strutted by the bar, distracting him from Em’s performance.
“Not a chance, Sahara.” Grabbing an empty glass, he tossed it in the sink and snapped on the faucet.
Her lower lip jutted out in the most seductive fake pout he’d ever witnessed. That girl could really work it. “You hurt my feelings, Jay.”
“Please. I could no more hurt your feelings than a John could hurt a hooker.”
“Ouch. Harsh.” She cast a coy smile his way. “Yet accurate. You weren’t nearly as good as I thought you’d be, anyway. False advertising.” With a flip of her bottle blonde hair, she sauntered off, sashaying her hips for everyone at the bar to witness.
And he’d allowed that tongue inside his mouth? What the hell was wrong with him? Jay was suddenly overcome by the urge to brush his teeth. With bleach.
***
Dozens of crescent shaped marks marred Jay’s palms from the sheer number of times he’d balled his hands into fists throughout the evening. Each time Em flinched when a customer brushed past her. Each time she jumped at a loud noise or an unexpected touch and no one else noticed. No one else comforted her. Told her it was all right to be afraid. That it would get better. It might not be his place anymore, but it was someone’s. And that someone was completely fucking clueless.
When they finally left—Em and the idiot . . . together—Jay released his frustration. Knuckles cracked open and bled as he slammed his fist into the side of the bar, earning him more than a couple strange looks from the stragglers who refused to get the hell out so he could go home. He didn’t give a damn. It was late and he was tired. The entire day had royally sucked. But, then again, that was true of most days.
Ten minutes later, the bar was cleaned and prepped for the following day. Snatching up the final glass with a splash of vodka cranberry left in the bottom, his last remaining customer finally took the hint and pulled on his long, dark overcoat, tossing a few dollars on the bar before heading for the door. No tip. Figured.
Washing out the glass, he shoved it in the drying rack and pulled on his own jacket. Bart was still in the back going over paper work, so he didn’t bother with the lights, heading straight for his truck. All he wanted was to crawl into bed and shut the world out for a few solid hours.
Life was never that simple, though. He’d barely turned onto the road when a detour sent him the long way home. What the hell had he done to piss off the universe so badly? At a stop light, Jay dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes to count to ten. His hand was throbbing and the last thing he needed was to cause real damage by hitting something else with it. He opened them again just in time to see a girl crossing the street on the opposite side of the intersection. As she passed through the beam of his headlights, Jay uttered a curse.
Un-fucking-believeable. It was Em. Walking. Alone. In the middle of the friggin’ night. Son of a bitch. Hitting his turn signal, Jay waited impatiently for the light to turn green before cruising up slowly behind her. He leaned over to crank open the passenger window as he approached, doing his best not to scare the crap out of her.
“Em!” She jumped anyway and Jay’s fingers clenched the steering wheel.
“Jay. What are you doing here?” Em glanced up and down the street as though she’d expected someone else—maybe the boogie monster from the look in her eyes—and stepped closer to the truck.